


Unsteady

by grammarpolice



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood, Crying, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-18 00:00:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21518596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grammarpolice/pseuds/grammarpolice
Summary: hope you enjoyed :)a couple things:1) this is just me dipping my toe into the ao3 world of prodigal son. i wrote this at 11pm on a school night and haven't proofread so i apologize if it's trash and/or for any mistakes2) this show is fairly new, so i apologize if characterization is slightly off3) i'd love to write more ps whump! if you have any prompts, please let me know, i'd love to write them!! (and make them much longer and much, much better)4) sorry this is so depressing, i can't help myself
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 39
Kudos: 114





	Unsteady

“It hurts, Gil.”

The words are heavy on Malcolm's tongue, intangible and stale and jaded like they’re not his own. A detached sense of reality replaces consciousness and his mind stumbles as if the floor beneath him is fracturing into a disarray of minuscule shambles of light and color and voices and memory, and he can’t make it stop, can’t quite stop the palpability of pain in his abdomen, twisting and writhing and contouring against his organs, his muscles, his flesh, can’t lose the grounding presence of Gil’s hand against his cheek, can't let it slip away. 

“I know, I know, kid,” Gil says, though the words sound more like static frequency in Malcolm's ears than anything. Regardless, the quiver in the man's voice is so prominent, so staunch and unrelenting and _terrifie_ d, that it sinks to the depths of Malcolm's gut and simmers there with the blade. After a moment, Gil adds, if only to assuage his own apprehension, “The medics are coming. You’re gonna be fine, you hear me?”

Malcolm nods, because this is Gil, and Gil is never wrong, and the pain in his abdomen is mutating into a debilitating numbness that has his funnel of vision spiraling and constricting, forces him to shake his head to stay awake, _stay awake,_ because if he faints he likely won’t open his eyes again. He tries to rationalize with his brain, only thirty-seven point twenty-nine percent of stab wound victims flatline before reaching the hospitable, but — _you’re gonna die, you’re gonna die_ — he can’t quiet his thoughts, can’t confine his adrenaline, can’t contain the blood that drains from his body in streams of red and paints Gil’s hands, the concrete beneath them, the broken shreds of his own skin.

He wonders if it will be Edrisa who wheels his body away. Will she slice down the middle of his chest, peel back his flesh, pull the organs from his body one by one? Will she produce shards of the blade from his muscle tissue, pluck them from his bloodstream and place them on a metal plate that will rattle at the notion? Will she cry?

“How you doin, Malcolm? You gotta keep talking, all right?”

Gil says to keep _talking—you’re gonna die—so_ he says the only thing he can think of, that he can’t stop thinking of, because, “I’m gonna die.” The words nearly die on his tongue, escaping passed gritted teeth with nothing more than the force of a whisper. He wants to cry, to scream until his vocal cords shred, to chew off his own arm so he can feel something more than the suffocating pain of admitting death.

“Like hell you are,” Gil replies, even though Malcolm has been able to tell when the man was lying since he was ten. He remembers the first time Gil took him to the precinct, the time he helped him make cookies for a school bake sale, how he coached Malcolm’s soccer team after the head trainer quit, how he drove the boy to see his father every day for a year, and realizes that Gil had been a better father than his own could ever fathom.

“Th- thank you,” Malcolm whispers. 

“Don’t say that, Malcolm. Don’t—the ambulance is almost here, I can hear it. You just gotta stay awake.”

Malcolm's eyes weigh against his sockets. Everything in his body seems to still, to numb, to fade into the background, the grey sky, the water droplets on his cheeks that are either tears or rain, like all that’s left in the world is he and Gil. “I should've listened to you. I shouldn’t have-have gone in there alone. I’m sorry,” he hears himself say, no clearer than if he were beneath water. “I’m just like Dr. Whittley. He’s right, I’m just like him, I don’t l-listen to anyone. And I should've listened to you.” The air in his lungs thin, hitch against each chocked inhale, and he’s not sure if he’s crying because he hasn't cried in so long.

“Shh, Malcolm. It’s okay.”

He sinks deeper into Gil’s hold. Deeper into his arms, deeper into his chest, deeper into his voice, and for a moment a sense of serendipity washes over him. The tingling sensation in his blood sieges his muscles and his arm finds its way upwards, gently landing on Gil’s cheek. It’s warm and comforting and alive and everything Malcolm's is not because the son of Martin Whitly does not deserve such an honor as to be compared with Gil Arroyo.

“Thank you, Gil,” Malcolm says again, and he thinks that no matter how many times he repeats the mantra, the words will be nothing in comparison to their truth.

"No, Malcolm. Thank you.” He feels Gil’s lips press against his forehead. “I know you’re not my real son, but you’re the best one I could’ve asked for."

With the sound of sirens blaring nearer, Malcolm lets his eyes close. 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed :) 
> 
> a couple things: 
> 
> 1) this is just me dipping my toe into the ao3 world of prodigal son. i wrote this at 11pm on a school night and haven't proofread so i apologize if it's trash and/or for any mistakes 
> 
> 2) this show is fairly new, so i apologize if characterization is slightly off 
> 
> 3) i'd love to write more ps whump! if you have any prompts, please let me know, i'd love to write them!! (and make them much longer and much, much better) 
> 
> 4) sorry this is so depressing, i can't help myself


End file.
